“Well,” said he, “that’s my opinion; there is a cloud rising in the south-west; and, look, there are some Mother Carey’s chickens dipping in the water astern.”
“Where?” said the passenger, a curly-headed Creole, about twenty years old.
“Those small birds,” replied the captain, walking forward. The passenger went down below, and soon returned with his double-barrelled fowling-piece.
“I have long wished to shoot one of those birds,” said he; “and now they are so near, I think I may get a shot.”
He raised his piece several times without firing, when the captain came aft, and perceiving his intention, caught his arm as he was about to level again.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Higgins, but I really must request that you will not fire at those birds.”
“Why not?”
“Because I cannot permit it.”
“But what’s to hinder me?” replied the young man, colouring up; “they are not in your manifest, I presume.”
“No, sir, they are not; but I tell you frankly, that I would not kill one for a hundred pounds. Nay, I would as soon murder one of my fellow-creatures.”